


Les Amis du QUILTBAG

by Petra



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Activism, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group that nearly missed trending on Twitter. Abandoned WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which PGPs are Decrypted

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be posted piecemeal as chapters are completed. I will announce its completion when that occurs. Some sections have explicit content; all will have appropriate notes. I dislike the term QUILTBAG, but some characters are precisely the sort of people who would embrace it, if only ironically. Thanks to my intrepid pre-readers.
> 
> I have taken the liberty of giving my characters names that are not in the canon. For anyone who finds themselves bewildered after reading, the end-notes give the concordance of the modern names with canon names.

Some people answer the question, "What is your preferred gender pronoun?" with "he" or "she," some with "ey" or "ze" or "co." Adila is braced for any of those possibilities and many more besides.

When no one interrupts--which they always do after the first time--R answers it with, "'R,' but only when spelled with a capital letter. The standard feminine and masculine pronouns do not suit me, as I am n either and would not want to mislead anyone into expectations of me that are not the case. Language shapes thought, and gendered thoughts are so tightly shaped by all our interactions that to use the syllable 'he' or the slightly more phonemically complex one 'she' immediately evokes a tangle of societal problems. Not for me the pink or blue dilemma; I reject it wholesale and strike out anew into the realms uncharted, where no one can expect anything of me but that I will be myself.

"But if you omit the capitalization in text or speech--and I can hear the difference, I assure you, as readily as you can hear the difference between 'he' and 'she'--the term no longer applies to me. It could be anyone who has taken on the pronoun 'r,'" nearly a whisper, "cutting short the requested sound into a choked-back liquid ashamed of itself. I am not ashamed, and never shall be; I stand forth as the androgyne gods of past empires clothéd in the truth of myself, and that truth is not minuscule."

There is a brief silence following this, as if all the words used to answer the question were robbed from everyone else seated around the table.

"All right," Adila says, when she has collected her thoughts--she has a "She" button on her generous bosom and her black hair falls past her bare, tan shoulders. Her turn answering the question drew neither comment nor clarification. "And you?"

The next speaker is slim and wears a baggy flannel shirt and khakis, with dark curly hair long enough to ensure that someone who is, like the speaker, in their late teens or early twenties is asked the relevant question frequently. "I'm JM. Today. Um, ze and hir, please."

Everyone nods, and the question moves on to "David, he," who puts down his phone on the table next to a tall, frothy coffee and smiles at JM. His teeth are perfect and so is his hair and his dark suit, though the pink shirt underneath his jacket is much too tight for most offices. "When you're not JM, what should we call you?"

JM says, hir voice not carrying beyond their table, "Sometimes I'm MJ. I'll let you know what kind of a day it is."

"Cool," David says, and picks up his phone again. It vibrates in his hand.

"Sorry I'm late," a newcomer says, and sets down a cup of coffee on the edge of the table. It tips into its owner's lap and nearly floods a ruffled teal skirt with milky brown, but a helping hand from the next person along saves it. "Thanks," the newcomer says, with a nervous smile.

"We're introducing ourselves, Theresa," Adila says.

"Theresa, she and her," the newcomer says, reclaiming her coffee from its savior. With her other hand, she pats her hair, a pile of red curls that threaten to tip off of her head. With them and the high heels she wears, she is taller than anyone else at the table.

"Thanks." Adila runs through the introductions Theresa has missed without asking anyone to repeat themselves. They have a meeting of the Queer Spearhead to hold, and if they let R run through R's spiel again, they may never start.

"Marcus, he" taps the tablet in front of himself impatiently with his long brown fingers. "Theresa, are Joy and Shari coming?"

"I don't think so. Let me text them." Theresa takes out her phone. "I haven't seen Joy outside the library in days."

Marcus looks around the table frowning as if everyone there is responsible for this absence. "She has the notes on the nondiscrimination act protest."

"And a paper on constitutional law to finish," Theresa says, her voice soft and trying to be consoling.

"You didn't delete her draft by mistake, did you?" R asks, as if R knows her proclivities as well as the long standing members of the group do. "When you orchestrated the grand crash of Google's cloud servers merely by giving them a cross-eyed look in the midst of your work, I thought she was going to tear out what little hair you have left and burn it as an offering to the gods of digital information storage, little though the offering would have helped. I've given them enough of my fingernails, bitten off in dire straits, to know that mere body parts do nothing with those deities. What's wanted is a sense of abandonment and abjection, as well as a competent person at the support system who doesn't tell you to turn your computer off and then on again in the vain hope that it will affect far distant systems entirely out of your control."

"It wasn't my fault." Theresa rubs the back of her neck. "I promise."

"As long as that's settled," Adila says, before R can start again, and glances at Marcus to give him the floor.

His spine straightens and he looks around the table with a piercing gaze as though he is about to preach rather than lead a meeting. "Welcome, everyone, especially people who are new to our group. We're working on several issues, and after we finish the social portion of the meeting, we'll divide and get to work. Theresa is head of the gender neutral restroom promotion subcommittee."

She waves in case any of the people have forgotten who she is.

"And Joy is the head of the nondiscrimination act protest planning committee." Marcus's mouth twists in irritation. "Or she would be, if she were here. I'll take over for now, since Theresa is busy and I have some idea of what she's been working on."

"But first, we shouldn't forget the social announcements," Adila says, her smile growing fixed. "Anything people want to share is fair game, whether it's finding a new partner, having an argument with your boss--" she glances at JM and adds, "--or parents, whatever's on your mind. Everyone gets a turn, and remember not to criticize each other's experiences. We're here to listen."

R coughs and leans over behind JM to say to Theresa, "You didn't say this was group therapy. I thought you were changing the fucking world," loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"I'll go first," Adila says loudly. Selective deafness is not her favorite way of running a meeting, but it's better than asking a new person to leave the group, which is barely large enough to sustain itself. "I had a positive interaction with my boss the other day. He asked how my partner was instead of assuming I have boyfriend or a girlfriend."

Marcus claps dutifully and Theresa says, "Awww!" After a second, David claps too, and JM joins in. It's much more applause than the anecdote deserves.

"Okay, R, over to you." Adila braces herself.

"Dearest Theresa caught me reading Public Sex on the bus and inquired of me whether I had heard of this group. Who was I to protest that I had only selected the volume for its neon cover and its provocative title when she lured me here with stories of firey debate and young people to whom gender is as fluid as the seas and human experience is appreciated to its vasty deeps? That was the highlight of my week, possibly of the month if I continue to be between partners." R looks around the table with an expectant air. No one makes a proposition. "I look forward to all manner of delights in your company, even if they involve joining a committee." The last words have an undertone as if someone had asked R to scrub the bathroom.

"Welcome," Marcus says, his voice as deep and stern as he can make it. He puts that on when he's annoyed, and sometimes it gets too obvious. "JM, how did you find us?"

"Your website," JM says, not looking up from the table. "And I. I told my parents to use my chosen name. They won't. And they laugh at the pronouns."

"That's rough," Theresa says, above the general noises of sympathy.

David says, "It was a pretty good week. Met a couple of people." His phone buzzes as he speaks. "That's all."

"I spent more hours than anyone should be awake working on papers for my classes, but I've got a draft letter for employers for the bathroom initiative," Theresa says, and takes out three different USB sticks. "And backups, in case."

"Thanks, Theresa," Marcus says. "I hope you're all aware that Eunice Bratts passed away this weekend."

Everyone gives him a blank look. Adila feels slightly guilty that she doesn't know what he's talking about.

"Ms. Bratts was one of the first organizers in the coalition movement to try to bridge the gap between the NAACP and the queer movement."

"Oh, that Eunice Bratts," R says, as if it's all become clear. "Sorry, I must have been thinking someone else when you said her name the first time. A shame, a terrible shame."

"You know her work," Marcus says, looking as though he's glad to have R as a new member for the first time all meeting.

R laughs. "Not even slightly, but if she worked with the NAACP and the queer movement, it's a shame. Isn't it? Or was she ineffective? I don't see that many NAACP leaders coming to the rescue of their queer brothers and sisters--sorry, JM, siblings--not these days. Perhaps if they'd had a trailblazer with a more euphonious name. No one wants to follow a Eunice, and as for Bratts--no, I'm sorry, she would have had to marry, or remarry, or at minimum change her name. At least we know where we stand, or rather sit, with a woman who rejoices in the name of Rosa Parks. It's a solid name, a trustworthy name."

"Unlike, say, 'R.'" Marcus raises his chin and tries to glare R into silence.

"You know precisely where you sit with me," R objects. "Directly between Q and S, or in my case between Adila and JM, which I'll admit is a bit out of alphabetical order. I'll make sure next time to put myself between you and Theresa, Marcus, presuming of course it's not an MJ day for JM."

JM giggles. "I'll let you know."

Marcus says, "Committee meeting. My nondiscrimination people here; Theresa, your bathroom crew at the next table over." He points.

"Not in the bathroom proper?" R asks. No one answers.

"I don't know which committee to join," JM says, frowning.

"Try them both, then decide which you like better," Adila offers, and goes to sit with Theresa and read over her letter.

When Theresa puts her mind to something, she does good work. Adila can't concentrate over the sound of Marcus arguing with R about the feasibility of pressuring legislators regarding nondiscrimination enforcement, but she tries to do the letter justice anyway. JM joins them with an apologetic look and reads over Adila's shoulder for long enough that she wants to start defining words for him. Theresa's law classes make her clauses practically impenetrable at the best of times.

"Oh, sit down," David says from behind them.

Adila, Theresa, and JM turn around. R is standing, hand in the air as if they're putting on a play and it's time for the big soliloquy. "And if you persist in the delusion that you will be able to convince the entrenched power structure to honor you, you are a fool," R says, then sits.

Marcus's mouth is open for a long moment. Then he closes it and asks, "Why are you here?"

"Why does anyone do anything?" R asks, smiling. "Why do we join the clubs and take the jobs we take, but for the hope that somewhere in the swirl of new acquaintances we'll find someone who cares whether we're there? For myself, I'd like a lover or two--three might be too much at once, because my bed is only a single futon and wouldn't accommodate that much of a crowd--but where better to find a like-minded soul than here?"

"Anywhere," Marcus says, his voice cold enough that it should frost the air as he speaks.

"You wrong your friends--or do they not attract you? If so, then pardon me, but understand why I'm here, and why most of them likely are too unless they share your lack of regard for one another. In the words of the great Quentin Crisp, 'Who would go to a Morris dancing class if the only hope were that it would lead to greater expertise in Morris dancing?'"

"This is primarily a political group," Marcus said, his voice rising in volume until Adila winces.

"Primarily," she says, and goes over to their table in the hopes that she can distract them before they manage to scare off JM. Ze hadn't had anything useful to say about Theresa's letter, but like everyone else in the group and possibly the entire coffee shop where they're meeting, ze has been distracted by the bickering. Besides, something might come of hir membership later. "But not exclusively. We're many things to many people."

"All things to all men?" R asks hopefully.

Adila can hear Theresa sigh behind her. "In a more gender-inclusive sense, and less religious than that, yes. There's no point in joining a group if all you get out of it are petitions, I agree with you there." She ignores the way Marcus scowls at her, but if he had his way he'd chase off anyone who offered to join and was slightly less driven than he is, which encompasses the entirety of the human population. Including Adila. "On the other hand, we're not here for hook-ups."

"Speak for yourself," David says cheerfully, though as far as Adila knows he hasn't had sex with anyone who attends meetings regularly, as most of them are too female--in the case of Adila, Theresa, Joy, and Shari--and Marcus is asexual. If they get someone new and David manages to score, so much the better for him, but it can't be his primary reason for attending the group.

"Ah," R says, brightening slightly. "If some of you recognize the divine drive of the human to seek out the company of like-minded souls for sexual congress rather than pestering Congress, then I'm happy enough. Go on, Marcus. How is this document going to save the world, precisely? We all must be allowed to sue our employers if they happen to mention that we are in some way outside of the norm, yes?"

"Yes," Marcus says, and takes a deep breath. "Adherence to gender roles shouldn't be a prerequisite of employment in any place in the United States. Some areas have already adopted the statute, and the federal government has issued a statement of sorts, but until everyone lives in a place with explicit legislation that recognizes that all people are created equal, regardless of their desire to perform--or not to perform--various genders, no one is safe."

R yawns extravagantly.

Adila turns back to Theresa's letter with a fixed smile before Marcus can draw her into the fray again. "Let's go over that again."

She ignores the argument that rages behind her, except to note that David switches sides at least three times based on whoever has made the weakest argument last. Instead of interfering, she makes sure that JM has her contact information before she admits there's nothing to say about Theresa's letter except that she ought to send it to Adila as soon as she can. "And let Joy and Shari know we missed them."

"Sure," Theresa says, and looks over Adila's shoulder. "They're all still here." She sounds as surprised as Adila is about that.

If Marcus had given Adila half this much trouble the first day she showed up, she would have walked out and left the group for good, even though she'd known him for years and trusted him to behave himself in general, unless they were actively lobbying a politician who made his blood boil. R has no apparent reason to believe this isn't what all their meetings are like, and if R comes back, it will be either a minor miracle or a deliberate provocation.

David has his phone out again when Adila's group rejoins the others. Marcus has his tablet in front of him, the cover closed, and he is avoiding looking at R in the most ostentatious way possible. The only way he could be paying less attention to the person sitting beside him is if he turned his back completely, but that would be too much. "Does anyone have anything else to share?" Marcus asks. It's the traditional way Adila closes the meetings, but she's usually the one to ask it, and she waits more than the two seconds Marcus gives everyone before he says, "Thank you for coming. Same time next week."

"It was pretty cool," JM says quietly to Adila. "Thanks for letting me sit in."

"You're welcome any time," she says. There's a strength in having more warm bodies at the meetings, whether or not they contribute anything. If they look like they're gaining members--two at once, even--they might attract other people.

Hopefully they wouldn't all show up hoping to get a date out of it, but whatever gets people in the door is all right with Adila as long as they don't go on to have messy break-ups and cause trouble.

"Saint Theresa, how do you stand them all?" R asks, nowhere near quietly enough for anyone at the table to fail to hear.

Adila coughs, trying to get R's attention.

Marcus grinds his teeth and puts his tablet up in front of his face so he can pretend he's not paying attention to anything or anyone around him.

"They're good people, and they can be clever when you're not trying to needle them into shouting at you." Theresa asks, "Anyone need another coffee?"

"You're too fond of living up to your name for an impoverished student," R says, standing with a scrape of chair legs on the floor. "Work to be done, you know, the stars won't number themselves."

"What do you do?" JM asks.

"Everything that pays and several things that don't. Until next meeting." R bows to the group and leaves.

Marcus turns to Adila with an angry light in his eyes. She manages to forestall him with a quick shake of her head until JM leaves to catch a bus and Theresa settles in a corner to get work done.

"I'm not going to any conferences with that person. Nor will I allow anyone who is that antithetical to our mission to be a part of our group's protests in any public sphere, let alone any contact with elected officials." The way he speaks, he could be engraving it on stone tablets to beat people over the head with if they dare to contradict anything he says.

Adila has known Marcus since he first realized that he was a part of the Queer Community, such as it is, and he hasn't softened toward anyone or toward his ideals in all that time. Everyone else who was adamantly proud in the angriest way when they first realized they had a queer identity has relaxed, sooner or later, but not Marcus. She doesn't know whether his speech is symptomatic of his ongoing crusade against the nonqueer world, or whether he's really just that upset at R being a pain in the neck.

"We don't have to embrace anyone who's acting against our best interest, but I'm not sure R would do that. We don't know one way or another, not after half an hour's acquaintance. And Theresa thought it was a good idea to invite R."

Marcus sits up straight in his chair and looks down his nose at her with all the anger he can summon, which is an impressively forbidding amount considering Adila hasn't done anything to get on his nerves. "Anyone who decides that they need to have capitalized pronouns--"

"It was a joke," Adila says. She's not positive about that, but it seems like it's worth believing until proven otherwise. She's never known Marcus to contest anybody else's desire to use pronouns other than "he" and "she." He didn't bat an eyelash at JM's "ze" or any of the other ones people have asked for in her hearing. "Nobody really wants their pronouns capitalized, and if they do, they don't ask for it like that."

"You did not spend the rest of the meeting enduring that person." Marcus stands, a tight smile on his face as if he's decided to tolerate her in lieu of tolerating R--whose pronoun he is assiduously avoiding. "When you have conversed, then let me know what you think. Unless, of course, we are blessed and said person never attends another meeting."  



	2. In which Bathrooms are Temples of Filth of All Sorts

R shows up to every single meeting for the next month, including the emergency stop-gap one on a Wednesday afternoon instead of the normal Saturday when Joy is finally available to go over a series of legal documents and they can send things out to the state senators and representatives just in time for a vote. The only people at that one are Marcus, Joy, R, and David, who's in his last year of poli-sci and heading for law school afterward. He's not there in his capacity as a student, though, unless it's as student of human nature. There's nothing funnier than watching Marcus get angry at someone he's not willing to tell to fuck off, even though R's quiet the whole meeting, or anyway as quiet as R ever gets. Apart from the occasional dirty pun, R doesn't interrupt Joy and Marcus.

The vote doesn't pass, but not because of anything R has done to slow them down, or anything that anyone in the group can think of that they should have done differently. David spends most of the next evening talking Marcus down from driving to the state capital and starting a hands-on protest until they repeat the vote, and tries not to regret it. He has a hot date scheduled, but Brad will wait, or Brad will find somebody else to sleep with. Marcus in a state where he's fuming, "We should paint their cars rainbow," shouldn't be left alone, and Adila has to work that evening. Marcus should be too old to need babysitting, but there they are.

Anyone else and David would get the man too drunk to walk straight, let alone make a several hour drive at eleven-o'clock at night. Marcus's family has alcohol problems--according to Adila, because Marcus won't talk about things like that unless someone has a gun to his head--and David's never seen him drink anything stronger than espresso.

"If we paint their cars rainbow, they'll get them repainted immediately and no one will ever know," David points out.

Marcus rolls his eyes and sulks over his coffee, but he doesn't make any more destructive suggestions. David's inclined to count that as a win for the forces of good, or at least the forces of keeping Marcus out of jail. If he wanted to do something that was actually civil disobedience, that would be different. Mere vandalism isn't worth the legal record.

"How is the reaction looking?" Marcus asks, and before David can answer he takes out his phone.

They spend a companionable, unhappy few minutes checking various liberal websites and the posts people have made since the news came out, sharing opinions that range from the bigoted "I don't want any men in my bathroom" to more disappointed comments from people who sympathize with the cause.

David finds one particularly lengthy piece, blinks at the author's name, and starts laughing at it before he remembers he's sitting next to Marcus, who asks, "What is it?"

If David hands over his phone, he can't censor some of the less appropriate remarks. "Somebody who goes by 'R' posted on this page," he says, and instead of letting Marcus see it directly or giving him the address, he reads it out loud, starting off quietly.

"'To whom it may concern, which is properly speaking everyone who has either urinated or defecated in their lifetime, which is to say everyone of an age and education that allows them to read this, surely you must all be aware of the physical discomfort inherent in being unable to find an appropriate facility when the need is upon you. Why would you wish such a cruelty on your fellow people when all they want is a safe place to be themselves, to let their hair down, and to have a moment's peace?

'Perhaps some of the worry has to do with what generally goes on in restrooms. As an individual of fluid gender, I have snuck into public facilities for both binary sexes and observed the temporary inhabitants under the guise of being one of their own, and some of my best friends are men and women, so I've heard their tales besides. I assure you, gentle readers, that my field observations show me nothing more than the highest truth, and I can say without fear of accusation of stereotyping that the people who should advocate most strongly for single occupancy, non-gendered facilities are people who urinate or defecate outside of the privacy of their own homes; that is, anyone who intends to spend time outside of their homes for any period in their lives.

'The shape of the genitals they use to do this and their perception of their gender are immaterial, for if you have heard the conversations that go on when people think they are alone and unobserved by anyone who could cause them discomfort, you will know that those conversations belong flushed down the very fixtures near which they tend to take place. The private spaces of the world are polluted as much by the speech therein as by the ambient aerosolized E. coli endemic to the lavatory, which in turn contributes to making a restroom a truly unpleasant place to converse.

'No, if people must be alone together in what is a private space, it should be clear to all around them that they are using a single-occupancy area for two people. Let them carry on whatever unsanitary intercourse they favor, whether it is a deconstruction of the attractiveness or personality of those around them, or worse, the ever-present threat of sexual contact in a public space, and then leave a single-seat space together in full view of passerby. Then people will know one another for the bathroom predators they are: insatiable gossip mongers, chatterers in the stench of the sewer, or those unlucky individuals who find white, glossy porcelain unbearably arousing, though this latter group are blessedly few in number, either because it is not a useful evolutionary trait or because they have removed themselves from the gene pool in shame.

'Stand forth, brave citizens, and speak truth to power: the entrenched latrine system is untenable in the long run, and the sooner we pressure our elected officials to mandate a better system, the sooner we shall all have privacy and the knowledge that no deals are made in a place we cannot enter, no phone numbers will be written on a wall that we cannot see, and anyone who goes to the bathroom together is engaging in some foul practice and ought to be carefully watched in future to make sure that they do not touch anything before applying hand sanitizer or speak to anyone without cleansing their mouths and, if possible, their minds.'"

Marcus listens to the whole thing without complaining, which makes David wonder whether he's paying any attention or whether he's counting backward from one hundred by sevens to try to keep his mind off of the cynical excuse for political speech.

Given the length of the comment, he might be counting backward from one thousand by sevens instead.

"It's too bad that site doesn't have anyone who monitors its comments for relevance and the ability to construct a coherent political argument," Marcus says when David's done reading.

"Just because it's not a political argument doesn't mean it's wrong." David scrolls through the other comments, some of which take R's comment at face value, and some of which provide lengthy excuses for the kinds of conversations that go on in restrooms.

"No, but it's irrelevant to the political conversation." Marcus stands. "I would like another tea. What can I get for you?"

According to David's phone, it's creeping up on midnight. He says, "Chamomile, please," but keeps his voice down in case anyone is nearby. He doesn't want to be that guy who drinks herbal tea. It would ruin his reputation.

While Marcus is ordering, Brad comes into the cafe with his arm around another guy's waist; the two of them are slim, cute, and well-matched, and they look like neither of them has been listening to Marcus dissect internet comments for the last two hours. David catches Marcus's eye and mouths, "Give me a minute," then waves at Brad.

"Hey," Brad says smugly. "Thought you were busy tonight, Dave. This is Cory."

"Hey," Cory echoes.

David makes a mental note not to try to hit on either of them for at least a few weeks. "I'm kind of busy, yeah." He looks meaningfully toward Marcus at the counter, who's looking stern-faced but built as all hell. "Something came up."

"Huh," Brad says. David wouldn't dream of telling him not to bother weighing his own attractiveness against Marcus's. That's not how the game is played. "I guess it did."

"It's okay," Cory says, and leans on Brad.

They're not getting coffee, they're showing off, and they're probably leaving in the next five minutes either way. If David wanted to be an asshole, he'd play things up with Marcus, but there's no point in that and besides it would piss Marcus off if he figured it out. "Have a good night," he says, and gives Brad a little salute with his phone.

There are plenty of other fish in the sea, and he'd only made the date with Brad a few hours before the vote went down. While he's waiting for Marcus to get the tea, he texts R: "Saw your bathroom comment. If it was yours. Pretty good stuff."

R writes back: "thx y the splling txt like a norml prsn".

David writes: "M and I are at at the cafe. You live down the block, right? Come get some tea. Or coffee, if you’re a night owl. PS Spelling is gud 4 u."

The chamomile arrives at approximately the same time as R. "Hey," R says to Marcus, who gets a certain glassy look in his eyes whenever R's around without Adila to be a buffer.

"Good evening," Marcus says, though the way he says it sounds like he thinks it's gotten materially worse since R showed up.

Along with the sweet smell of the chamomile tea, there's a faint herbal-smoky aroma hanging around R's clothes, but that's what R always smells like. It takes a lot of guts or a minimum of common sense to show up to a legal review meeting stoned, and sometimes David can't tell whether it's just ingrained and refuses to wash out of R's hair and clothes, or whether it's a choice.

Or, possibly, an addiction, though David's got enough friends who argue about the impossibility of marijuana addiction that he's not going to ask that question of somebody he's only known for a month who has a proven ability to carry on about nothing in particular for minutes at a time without seeming to pause for breath, smoking up or no smoking up. "So that was your comment," David says to R before Marcus can get too grumpy about being forced to be civil outside of a normal meeting.

"Unless you're referring to some political tirade that someone has labeled with my initial and sole appellation of choice, yes," R says, sitting down at their table without bothering to order anything. At least when Brad and Cory came through to prove that they were capable of attracting someone, they weren't also hanging out--but R's been there enough in the last month and gone through enough coffee that no one's going to give them crap. "After all, the political and legal side of things has been handled time and time again in the media and in the series of blogs by far greater minds than mine." R nods ceremoniously to Marcus.

And is definitely stoned, but David's not going to say anything. It's late at night, and everybody gets to make their own choices about chemicals. At least R isn't driving distance from the cafe.

"All that was left to be said was the practical side of things, which hasn't been covered nearly enough in any phase of the media, mainstream or otherwise. How can we leave aside all of the everyday considerations? The things that everyone knows to be true that we need not wrangle about in this most basic of dead horses, which we beat until we hope it will gallop again down the streets and provide us all with some measure of acceptance so that unlike live horses, we are not constrained to--"

"Yes, all right," Marcus says, cutting R off. The chamomile isn't doing anything for him, but then it rarely does when he's already in a lousy mood. Marcus might be less uptight if he had the same smoky miasma R does, but that's not happening. "You had several useful sociological points, but none of them are the kind of information that legislators consider when they're making law. No one has the right to be free of gossip in the bathroom."

"Which is why I didn't make the argument to the lawmakers, but instead to the people--at least the subset of the people who are erudite and persistent enough to read the news on TGBLog and who are willing to go through the comments until they find one of more worth than the average." R shrugs. "This kind of change may be a civil right, is a civil right, I don't deny that, and we all ought to be safe in at least one small corner of the world. Able to experience some form of relief."

David thinks back to several incidents while he was in middle school, when the average emotional intelligence of the boys he had to share a bathroom with was equivalent to their age. "It's not just people who aren't gender-conforming who could use the privacy, either."

"My point," R says.

"No, I mean not just for the reasons you said, but because it's a place people get victimized." That was part of the legal argument as well, though it didn't seem to have any more impact on the people they made the argument to than the rest of it. David gives Marcus an apologetic look; they've been over this stuff enough times that everybody's tired of trying to frame the same complaint in a different way. "Preaching to the choir, I know."

"The choir are the only ones listening." Marcus rests his head on one hand and his elbow on the table. Either he's relaxing or he's feeling defeated. Either way, David worries about him more when he's anything but bolt upright than when he's threatening to spray-paint state senators' cars.

R pats Marcus's shoulder affectionately.

David holds his breath for a second, but Marcus doesn't bite R's head off.

"It's not just the choir," R says. "I mean, I'm here."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"No, but I'm not exactly attending your meetings and finding my page in the hymn book, and when you need harmonies I'm no good." R makes an irritated face and drops the metaphor. "Your problem is marketability. If you're too angry, too forceful, people get their backs up before you get under their radar and convince them you're just as human as the next person, whether the next person is straight, white, cisgender, male, thin, handsome, rich, able-bodied, neurotypical--what have I forgotten, David?"

David doesn't count the axes of privilege on his fingers. They'll be there until the baristas kick them out and go home if they start arguing about what counts as privilege and what doesn't. Instead of getting into it, he grins at R. "Educated, or failing that, capable of eloquence."

"Ah, thank you, of course. And we're not going to address problems of religious practice because whatever the creed, we all pee. But the education--having the terminology to be able to hold forth on socially constructed gender versus the differing needs of populations possessed of atypical genitalia, that sort of thing--do forgive me, David. Marcus."

There's nothing there to forgive, or at least, not in the realm of what R has forgotten. From his expression, it's clear that Marcus hasn't lost track of what's getting on his nerves. "No matter what the discrimination is based on, if you're going to argue that we aren't allowed to be angry that it happens, you need to find another group of people to engage with."

R looks wounded; too wounded for it to be a real expression. "I have never said you shouldn't be angry, only that it's not to anyone's best interest to seem so. And you'll forgive me, surely, if I point out that of your merry crew you tend to be angriest of all." R gives Marcus what may be supposed to be a flirtatious look. "Purely based on your personality, as distinct from any other influences or stereotypes."

Marcus snorts and raises his mug of tea as if he's toasting R. "Unlike some people, I don't dull my senses to the outrages of the world. If you were paying attention to what just happened, to the discrimination the government's perpetuating, you'd be as furious as I am."

"Unfair," David says, before R can jump in. "After all, R wrote that comment, and it was hardly a cheerful comment. And I'm sure you read the article, too."

"I am mortally wounded that you think I would comment on anything without thoroughly analyzing the text first," R says dryly.

David smacks the table top. "There, Marcus, you have to abandon that line of argument. Or are you going to claim that Adila is as calm as she is because she doesn't pay attention, or because she modifies her reactions to the world chemically?"

"Drink deep," R says, waving at David's mug. "Calm thyself with chamomile, carouser."

It sounds like it should be a quotation from something, but David can't place it and won't break off the argument to ask. "Adila is Adila," he resumes, "and she's an excellent example of the ways that calm can effect change."

"I'm not Adila, and I'm not going to try to pretend to be her. Anger is natural when people's rights are in danger." Marcus closes his eyes for a long moment and looks weary. They've all lost a battle, but sometimes he takes too much of the responsibility on himself. He can't make votes go one way or another any more than the rest of them can.

"They're not your rights," R says, soft but not gently. "Unless there's something about your gender performance you've gotten catastrophically wrong and you're afraid to correct everyone as to their preferred gender pronoun, in this group, which is frankly beyond all credulity and I assure you I am capable of believing many things, as I was a practicing Catholic until the age of ten."

"Ten?" David asks.

R gives him a quick frown, as if to say they'll have that discussion some other time.

Marcus gets some of his normal vigor back and uses it all to glower at R. "I care about all of my friends' rights. All the rights of mankind, of Homo sapiens, of all of humanity. If I only protested the things that affect me directly I would be much more complacent than I am. Disgustingly so."

"I can't imagine you complacent," R says and makes it sound almost like a compliment. "If everything were right in the world and all the children grew up happy and strong, you would find something we were lacking, and then you would be upset about it with good reason."

"I don't think we need to worry about that happening any time soon," Marcus says, but there's a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that he doesn't get often.

David tries to remember the last time he saw Marcus laugh, let alone laugh at himself.

"Not if things keep going the way they are," R agrees. "If we can't manage a simple bill that would effectively benefit everyone except the corporations that have to provide restrooms, we may as well throw in the towel. Convert from pursuing political ends to something much more to the point, or if not to the point then more likely to result in at least temporary happiness for the participants rather than long-term disillusionment with the sociopolitical system, which is what the present state of affairs is likely to breed--though breeding is not, I think, the point of the exercise, the membership being what it is. I propose a weekly orgy of caffeine and complaints followed by a more leisurely orgy of the more traditional sort. I could host the latter half if you like," with a waggle of eyebrows.

Marcus's voice goes as cold as if he hadn't been on the verge of smiling. "If you feel your efforts are wasted here, by all means find another use for your time." 

He has to know that R's joking, but if he does he's not letting on. "Your efforts are a great deal more worthwhile than mine," R says, subsiding slightly. "You can craft all the masterfully worded letters in the world and if they fall on deaf ears, then what's the point of the exercise? At least with the alternative pastime there would be some relief of tension."

"I'd show up," David says, both because he would--out of curiosity if nothing else--and because he doesn't want Marcus to end a rough day by getting even grouchier and storming out. "But I'm not sure we have to give up on politics."

"A question for the ages: can sex and politics coexist?" R grins at him. "Let us all devoutly hope that the answer is yes."

"For some of us, they don't need to." Marcus folds his arms.

"Ah, yes." R gives him a pitying look, which is definitely a tactical error from where David's sitting. Marcus can be as strident about his identity as about anybody else's. David braces for whatever ill-considered tirade R has about the wastefulness of asexuality, but R says, "It must save you a great deal of time and effort, if nothing else. Time better spent in editing those letters until they shine with the light of a better world, if only the staffers opening the envelopes or email would pass them on to their superiors."

Marcus shakes his head slightly. "Thank you, I think." He swirls his mug. "I suspect that's the nicest thing anyone is going to say to me today, so on that note, good night."

It's past time for all studious types to be working on their next assignment or in bed, as far as David's concerned, but he's still got half a mug of tea left. "I'll bring a better selection of compliments for the next time we lose a vote," he offers. "'Night."

"See you at the next meeting," R says, without any hint of insult.

With some difficulty, David waits until Marcus has left before he asks, "You knew, didn't you? I mean, you were here when Harriet dropped by for a meeting and they bonded over all that ace stuff, and semi-demi-hemi-romantics."

"What someone claims to be in public and what they are in private may be different indeed." R shrugs. "Do you think I sign all of my screeds with a single letter? Or that I insist that my employer address me with the appropriate pronoun, capitalized, or risk a charge of sexual harassment?"

Capitalized pronouns make David grin. He's glad he doesn't identify as any of the nonstandard ones, but if he decided he needed one, he would want it to be just right too. If they have to be capitalized, so be it. "Well, no, I'm sure you don't because you'd have made the news, but I didn't mean you. I meant Marcus. He says what he means and he doesn't exaggerate--which is frightening sometimes, I'll grant you that, but if all you want is to get laid, you're barking up the wrong tree."

R leans across the table to say quietly, "Except I didn't leave with him, did I? I'm right here."

"So you are." It's not the best proposition David's gotten all day, what with Brad and his sexts messages, but Brad is long gone with his arm around what's his name. And R's not bad looking.

That's not true; R's got the kind of ingrained, shaggy look that comes with spending no time at all on personal hygiene and a lot of time thinking of clever things to post on the internet, and the kind of pudgy physique that goes along with it. David has a certain respect for people who can keep themselves trim--like Brad--and there's the ever-present question of whether the assumptions he's made about R are right, when it comes down to naked time. Pudgy means breasts on everybody, and while David's mother has a heavier mustache than R's, he's met plenty of men who wouldn't be caught dead with so much as peach fuzz in public.

There are questions no one asks in this particular circle, no matter how often they're asked elsewhere and sometimes because everyone asks them except these people. It's a matter of habit that David picked up by osmosis well before he met R. No one asks Theresa what she's got under her skirt or her tidy pants suit. Either you know, because she's decided to say, or you can make an educated guess based on the way she holds herself, the timbre of her voice, and all the other clues that go into figuring out who someone else is. But you don't ask outright, not if you want to be asked back to the meetings, not if you want Theresa to talk to you, or Adila not to glare at you with a force she saves for excruciatingly special occasions, or Marcus to stand up--threaten to stand on the table, even--and give a long tirade about the difference between sex and gender and the irrelevancy of the first in the face of the second.

No one has asked JM either, who is one brave kid and who doesn't dress any differently on the MJ days, but the way ze moves is different. Lighter, maybe. Slower. David's not going to be the person who pipes up and wonders what's in hir pants, not least because he's sure ze's still in high school and the last thing he needs is for anyone to think he's after jailbait.

Theresa's never hit on David. JM doesn't flirt with anybody and goes a sort of maroon color when anyone makes a dirty joke, though ze's started laughing at them too.

And then there's R, who's careful about pronouns to a fault and doesn't mention any kind of biology that would give anyone a clue. David's not sure whether having sex with someone just to find out what their genitals are shaped like is exactly in anybody's book of manners, but it wouldn't be that, or anyway not just that. "Well," he says. "I have a class at ten tomorrow."

"I have to work at nine." R stands up with a self-satisfied smirk that's not as attractive as it could be, but is definitely as R as anybody could be. "My place is closer."

David finishes off his chamomile in one swig, wishing it was espresso. "Sounds good to me."


	3. In which we discover how much fun it is possible to have while clothed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac/Grantaire, the hot new pairing all the kids are crazy about.

On the way to R's apartment, R forewarns David, "There are people who keep their apartments at peak condition for entertaining guests at all time, every IKEA bookshelf spotless and with something placed faux-artlessly just so to accentuate the tome the host would most like to be asked about reading, whether it's a work of lengthy fiction like War and Peace or some more frothy confection by Deepak Chopra chosen to give the sense of being a deep thinker without the effort of paying attention to the intricacies of philosophy. No one puts a bowl of glass marbles just so by their copy of Aristotle unless they've been through the wars, or at least through a bachelor's degree in philosophy. And those would probably prefer you to think they favor Foucault or Barthes, as Aristotle is startlingly passe when it comes to the finer things in life."

"Ah," David says. "Barthes, sure," in the precise tone of someone who'd never read Barthes but knew when someone was being namechecked whom he ought to have read.

David was charming enough to get away with it. That was the trouble with him, and with all the rest of his merry crew. R resumed, "I don't do anything like that. If it's a good day, I put the issues back in the longbox. If it's not such a good day, there may be all manner of undergarments strewn about the place." 

That got David to smile, at least. "As long as you don't try to get me into any of them."

"Only the ones that would suit you and accentuate your gender performance," R agrees cheerfully. "Though you'd look smashing in a basque. Have you ever been in Rocky? No, you're a bit young for that, really, aren't you."

The latter description makes David bristle, or at least flex his admirable pectoral muscles. He does dress to show them off, most days, and if R had a set as well-defined R would do likewise. "I never found a cast I clicked with. Not because I'm young, but because it's not my scene."

"Not quite your kind of queer."

"Yes, if you want to put it that way."

They're half a block from R's third story walk-up apartment, which is plenty of time for David to pretend he was going somewhere else and head off in a different direction well before anyone needs to get to the point of kissing on the front stoop. Not that there are stoops in this part of town, but that's never stopped anyone from making out in front of a front door and blocking traffic for other people who only want to get to their duly appointed meeting of politically angry people. "If your kind of queer is effectively limited to the kind of twink gym bunnies you have all those pictures of on your phone, you may as well head home, and no harm done." Though he must have noticed at some point that R has abs approximately equivalent to the average teddy bear's, and would be more at home in a relatively open-minded bears' club than anywhere that expects waxed chest and hard bodies. "On the other hand, if you're a size queen, I've got a bigger one than any of the bio-dudes I know, if I can remember where I put it."

David laughs without hesitation. He's always been hard to startle, whether he's actually as open-minded as he wants to seem or he saves all of his catty comments for his phone, which he doesn't have in his hand for once. He might refrain from tweeting the whole escapade if R's lucky. "I'm not, exactly. I mean--everyone is, up to a point, aren't they, but I know my limits."

"That's as good a place to start as any." R lets them into the building. "Up the stairs, and up the stairs, and then up the stairs. I think the last time I did the dishes was when my mother came to visit two months ago. Think of it as a vast science project if it bothers you. I'm investigating the local yeasts and other drifting creatures in view of discovering precisely how long one should wash dishes before one puts food on them, considering that they're all building up at all times on any available surface." It's not so easy to hold forth about dishes and climb two stories' worth of stairs, but it's worth the effort when David snorts in amusement.

"I'll keep that in mind. What do you feel about lips and skin, that sort of thing?"

"They should be thoroughly cleansed before making any contact. Either boiling water or Purell by the quart." R unlocks the apartment door and takes a sniff that would be more surreptitious if it didn't come after all those stairs. The sweet-smoky-rotting scent of home has been worse, and it has been better. The scent of cask-aged t-shirts isn't overwhelming at the door, or just inside it, which is where David pauses once the door's locked.

"Shoes off?" he asks, the sign of a well-socialized person pretending he hasn't noticed the twelve pairs of shoes ranging from heels to Doc Martens tangled by the door of what is essentially a glorified studio apartment.

R pats his cheek. "You're sweet, but only if you're willing to risk stepping on all manner of things from the eldritch depths underneath the bed, the laundry, and who knows what else. Should I offer you coffee?"

"I'm not particularly thirsty." David's lips--entirely unwashed and devoid of hand sanitizer, which is all to the good--taste of the chamomile tea he'd been drinking, and while there are no fireworks or great revelations of long-submerged desire, it's a sweet kiss, worth deepening and exploring. He's not as cut as some young men these days, through his tight shirt or under it, but then he's got his studying to do. He sighs softly at the first touch of skin on skin. "Don't you dare use this against me, but I'm ticklish."

"Ah, I'll be careful." There's a roughness on David's cheek and chin, not unexpected at midnight. "And don't send me in to work tomorrow--or is that later today--covered in beard burn."

"Nowhere that'll show," David promises, and tucks his hands under R's shirt.

"How do you get this off?" he asks, tracing the bottom edge of R's binder.

"You don't today, unless you like breasts considerably more than I think you might. It's a nuisance, and it's not the easiest thing to fuck in, but if it makes you more comfortable we can turn off all the lights, pull down the blackout curtains, and pretend like hell."

David nips R's shoulder, a tingling burn following the touch. "Do you take home a lot of people who need you to pretend your dick is attached? 'Cause I've met you, and I can pretend if you want me to, but not without knowing I'm pretending."

"I could get you high if it'd help."

"No, thanks." Another long kiss and David takes a solid handful of R's ass, which doesn't have the sculpted contours of any gym bunny's derriere of any gender. "Leave your shirt on if you want, but pants?"

Those are easier, at least up to a point. For trips to the cafe at gone eleven, the soft packer's more than enough, since people know R there and don't go into long, drawn-out gender compliance inquisitions over a slightly baggy pair of trousers. "All right, so you should've lost the shoes," R admits. David kicks them off.

From there, it is not far to the bed--one of the virtues of a studio apartment--and David picks his way through the drifts of clothing both work-a-day and glittery without a comment. "There's a clean dildo somewhere," R says, and goes diving into a pile that consists of a leather jacket, two pairs of jeans with entirely different tailoring around the hips, and a tie that had gone missing some weeks before. "Or anyway, I've got some cleaner."

Once David finds the bed with its covers rucked back in a state of disarray, he sits on the edge of it. "What did you want it for?"

"Ribbed for his pleasure." R finds the toy in question and takes it to the sink. Boiling would be better, but there are time constraints and with a condom, it won't be anything to worry about. "It's polite to make your guests feel at home, after all. To give them what they're expecting, instead of some gaping chasm where their expectations falter and fall. There are gloves under that side of the bed."

"If you've got a gaping chasm anywhere other than in your logic, I haven't noticed." David pulls out four of the bright nitrile gloves, a searing purple that makes them easy to find in the covers or anywhere else. "Unless there's something specific you wanted. I'm flexible."

"How flexible?" R asks, joining him on the edge of the bed and setting down the toy before gloving up. "You're here, yes, well done, but you don't have your ankles behind your head yet. Do you save the yoga for the second date?"

"Absolutely." David's hand is warm on R's thigh, and goes higher. He raises his eyebrows when he gets a handful of damp cotton, packer, and all-natural flesh. "For the first date--or hookup--pilates is as far as I'll go."

"Pitch or catch? By preference, in this instance--God forbid I should pigeonhole you by implying, mm, that you would only do one or the other. False binaries, false binaries. Kiss me."

"Neither, right now." They ease, topple over sideways, and between the kissing and the hard press and give of David's erection through the glove, the question gets lost. There are no hands everywhere as there sometimes are with a new lover, only fingers concentrating where they're most useful. For a man who's never mentioned a girlfriend David either has good instincts, the fastest learning curve on record, or unforeseen depths regarding unforeseen depths. 

It's easier not to breathe than to make embarrassing noises in whatever octave they want to escape in, with someone's hand doing what David's is in all the right rhythms. "Fuck" is less embarrassing than a groan that breaks too high, but not significantly, not when it comes out nearly soprano at the worst, best time, the peak of it all. Next time R swears to fall apart silently, to be less lost in the moment. To stay together, on top of things, in control of the awful noises that are possible in such cases.

Even if it was a good moment, fit to make anyone's knees shake with pleasure.

"All right?" David asks.

R kisses him again, bites at his lips until he shakes and his hips hitch, thrusting up. When he cries out, it is a strangled, manly bellow. Genes and hormones have blessed him with the kind of vocal chords that behave themselves in extremis, or at least maintain some form of consistency. "Better than all right?"

"Mm. Yes. You?"

"Best time I've had with my clothes on in weeks," isn't the highest praise, but it's true.

David yawns and covers his mouth with one wrist, just below the lurid glove. "You can take them off, but I don't know how much longer I'll be awake. I should get going soon." He doesn't add, "If you want me to go," which is gentlemanly of him, much like the sound he made as he came.

It's down to R to invite him to stay, or not. The bed is more than wide enough for two, a luxury and a hindrance in a small apartment, but sometimes useful in living up to a debauched reputation. "I do have to work tomorrow." A glance at the clock, and R corrects, "Later today."

"I can keep it together for another round if you want." David fidgets with the gloves, leaving R wondering whether the men-only circles of the city go without them as a rule. It's one less thing to worry about and one less layer to clean up after. 

Saying "Maybe next time" feels like going out on more of a limb than offering him a pillow for the night. Everyone sleeps, just as much as everyone requires a bathroom from time to time. Merely sharing a bed is nothing compared to assuming that David will ever be willing again, much less willing and available simultaneously.

"Sounds good to me." David peels off his gloves. "Bathroom's to the right of the aquarium?"

"Yes." The only inhabitants of the aquarium are carefully posed action figures from a variety of animated series, all older than JM and possibly outside of David's generation as well. There's no water in it, only the brightly colored gravel common to fish tanks. It's less vibrantly alive than a tank of fish would be, but it's much easier to clean, and simpler to maintain than the period when R tried to keep it alive as a small greenhouse. Buying all necessary mind-altering herbs from better gardeners gets expensive, but it's much less frustrating than trying and failing to grow a crop from expensive seeds that require the kind of care and patience that some people provide instinctively and others have to discipline themselves to achieve regularly. 

With the gloves and some nearby baby wipes, cleaning up without access to the bathroom takes approximately as long as it would with a second bath, which is the sort of room likely to occur in R's dwelling some time after R finds a real job, a permanent partner, adopts children, and takes in a rescue dog--that is, sometime after the fourth of Never.

David emerges with his hair wet all around his hairline, looking as though he's stuck his face in a full sink of water. "That woke me up," he says cheerfully. "I'd better go before it wears off."

Diffidence is not in R's nature, nor in his. "One more kiss for the road?"

It turns into five, and almost into an invitation, except that with every kiss, David's edging toward the door. Not fast enough that he's fleeing--he's too polite for that--but at a steady pace of punctuated equilibrium, he evolves right out into the hall. "See you," he says, and gets away without promising to call or text.

By then it's one in the morning and past time to sleep.

The next day is like every other work day: time to put on the uniform of someone who has no contact with customers and plenty of contact with food, to go into the back room of a small restaurant with its own oven and quality control standards that have everything to do with how the food tastes and nothing whatsoever with who the cook is, and chop and baste and stir and measure until the end of the day.

When it is not time for a meeting.

There are a series of messages from David during the day, as he is a more dutiful friend than anyone deserves, whatever his qualities as a lover. None of the texts involve a declaration of undying love, but are more to the point: "Marcus hasn't gone Edward Abbey yet. Says he's at work. All peaceful on w. front."

R leaves that one where it is, except to reply, "gd, gd it," and trust that David can figure out which of those is "good" and which is "god damn."

"Local rep on news at 12, says sorry about bill failure."

"bfd, too l8," for that.

"How's your beard burn?"

"fine, how ur str8 freakout?"

"Nonexistent."

"srsly?"

"Can't have a het freakout without het sex. See you at tomorrow's meeting."

That doesn't settle the question, but the way David acts at the meeting comes as close as anything will: to the untrained eye, there would be no difference in him from any other meeting. He puts his arm around MJ's shoulders at an emotional moment in the opening statements, such as they are, and keeps an eye on Marcus through his bare recitation of the legislative fuckup and how it put a damper on his week.

David does not at any point mention that he's been spending time--making time--with R.

It's not the most romantic gesture, but coupled with the texting under the table it's sufficient.

David writes, "We're keeping this quiet?" after neither of them mention it in their social update, while Shari is talking about going kitten-shopping with Joy, who's busy again.

"Their tiny little feet," Shari says wistfully.

"up 2 u," R writes back.

Adila gives R a stern look that's a prelude to a nonspecific lecture about how "we" should all pay attention to the meeting and not to electronic devices, which will all wait, unless there's some breaking news that "we" all grasp via some form of implanted chip that has nothing to do with checking the headlines every five minutes. Marcus does that no matter how many times Adila gives the speech, and David is always poking at his phone.

"any1 gd on grindr?" R sends David when he glances down at his phone again, slightly shamefaced but not deterred.

"No. Are you busy tonight?"

R considers this in light of not talking about it, the heartbroken look on MJ's face, and the way Shari's trying to explain Joy's latest contribution to the nondiscrimination act campaign. "come over if u want" is not the most artful way to phrase the proposition, but David grins when he gets it.

And again, with more abandon, later on.

It gets harder to keep the secret after that.

**Author's Note:**

> The promised concordance of names, with abuse of French thrown in for free:
> 
> Marcus né Enjolras  
> Adila née Combeferre  
> David né Courfeyrac  
> JM/MJ né/née Prouvaire  
> Theresa née Bossuet/L'Aigle or Lesgle de Meaux  
> Joy née Joly  
> Shari née Musichetta  
> R ~~né~~ ~~née~~ The only thing straightforward about R is R's provenance.


End file.
